Christmas is two days away, and a skimpy Charlie Brown tree sits against a plain wall in the basement apartment Yubisay Fonesca shares with her husband and six-year-old son. There’s a sack of miniature Milky Way candy bars on the window sill for guests. After a hard year, Yubisay is eager to share something sweet.
The family lost most of their furniture when Aurora police shut down their old apartment building in August. But now they have a couch again, a TV and black trash bags full of clothes from the move.
Lemon cleaner chokes out cigarette smoke from the hall. They don’t know how they will make rent, but at least they have a home to celebrate Christmas.
Yubisay’s family members were among the hundreds of people, mostly immigrants, living at Fitzsimons Place, a complex that violated health and safety codes for so long Aurora declared it unlivable. In the months since, Denverite has followed along to see how they and other families have survived the aftermath of a controversy that rose to national attention.
In August, police raided the building, taking control from its owner, CBZ Management, who abandoned several properties after a manager was assaulted at a different complex. In February, Aurora shuttered another CBZ apartment, the Edge at Lowry – this time over crime.
Yubisay watched on television as the apartments were sucked into an international media tornado about the Venezuelan prison gang Tren de Aragua. Donald Trump himself had campaigned about those CBZ apartments, promoting a mass deportation plan he named Operation Aurora.
Nearly 400 people lost their homes in the CBZ closures. The city of Aurora spent over $200,000 helping pay for hotel stays or rental deposits after the displacement but offered no ongoing case management and didn’t track where people landed, said Joe Rubino, a city spokesperson.
Former residents have scattered across the metro. They’re struggling to pay rent. Some are living in cars or on the streets. And many, like the Fonescas, have been hiding in the shadows from an immigration crackdown.
This story was reported through visits and messages with the Fonescas.
Dec. 23, 2024: Thank God for a home.
The Fonescas’ small, one-bedroom apartment is a short walk from their church, the grocery store, and son Gabriel’s school in Aurora. He’s in first grade now, learning English. Yubisay’s husband, Carlo, is out working as a roofer.
Yubisay does not have work authorization. She entered the country on immigration parole through the CBP One app and wants to apply for asylum but has no money for an immigration attorney. Even if she could find the money, the right to work legally wouldn’t be available for months.
Yubisay misses singing and laughing with her friends from the CBZ building. She does not miss the rats, bugs, broken appliances or mold.
She walks a few blocks away to the Village Exchange Center’s food pantry every Wednesday, where she passes out groceries to more than 1,000 people from all over the globe. Volunteering allows her to contribute to the community, even as the government won’t let her work. At the end of her shift, she brings food home to her family.
The family has managed to save some money, but with winter here, it’s difficult for Carlo to find jobs.
In the corner sit some Jordan shoes and other fashionable second-hand clothes she plans to sell to make money. Maybe someone could sublet the living room?
Somehow, she hopes, they’ll pay the $1,700 monthly rent on time.
In a few weeks, President Donald Trump will take office.
She’s been hearing talk on the news about what his presidency could mean for immigrants – for her family. ICE has not been a particular concern since she arrived. She knows that could soon change.
“Mom, they’re going to come to school,” Gabriel said. “The police are going to take the kids.”
“They won’t go to the schools,” Yubisay responded. “If that’s true, I’d go crazy.”
She says she’s frustrated how Venezuelans who have committed crimes are sullying the reputation of families like hers who want to contribute to their new country. Many new immigrants believe Trump will allow them to stay, instead focusing on deporting criminals. She’s not so sure.
“If God wants me to be here, I’m here,” she says. “If God wants me to return to my country, I welcome it.”
Jan. 1, 2025: A new year arrives with so much uncertainty.
Yubisay’s family from Venezuela calls at 5 a.m. on New Year’s Day. Her uncle has died. Soon after, she’ll learn her niece, who was in surgery for a brain tumor, has also passed away.
She wishes she could be back home, mourning. But there’s no way. She made that sacrifice to come to the United States.
She video chats with her family every day. They describe how they’re suffering under President Nicolás Maduro.
She never tells them about her struggles here. They have enough to worry about back home.
Feb. 5, 2025: ICE is here.
Just two weeks after Trump’s inauguration, military-style trucks and armed federal officers comb through Aurora, reportedly looking for 100 members of Tren de Aragua.
Yubisay keeps her son home, afraid the first grader’s fears of being detained in school could come true. The Trump administration has ended a sensitive spaces policy that had ensured schools, churches and hospitals were protected from immigration raids.
A woman stands outside Fonesca’s apartment building, screaming so the residents can hear: “Don’t leave your home. Don’t speak to anyone.”
Her neighbors applaud.
Though Yubisay needs food, she skips her volunteer shift at the food bank. Few others show, either, knowing a food bank could be raided, too.
ICE parks in the lot of a church near Yubisay’s apartment. The agents get out of the truck.
Is this it?
The driver and passenger trade spots and drive away.
Yubisay and Carlo decide not to leave their apartment for several days to avoid arrest. They cannot allow their family to be separated – even if it means going without income.
Feb. 7, 2025: Rent is due, and they are $700 behind.
“The landlord wants me to move if I don’t make rent by Monday,” Yubisay says. “I don’t have the full amount, because there’s no more work. Honestly, it’s bad. I don’t know where we’ll go.”
She lives in Arapahoe County. The county offers state-funded rental assistance – but people can’t apply if they’re not here legally. Though she’s followed the federal process to the best of her knowledge, she’s uncertain whether she’s eligible.
A spokesperson for the county says it’s committed to finding all residents resources, regardless of their background or circumstances and encourages all people facing eviction to reach out for guidance on available programs.
But Yubisay’s fear of government agencies looms. She worries the county could call ICE.
Feb. 8, 2025: The landlord has posted a Demand for Compliance on her door.
The notice says she has two weeks to move out if she can’t pay up. The family can still avoid eviction if they pay the rent. But the family fears leaving an apartment they may soon lose.
Yubisay’s reading about her rights, looking for free legal help, trying to understand the laws.
Mostly, she’s in doubt.
Feb. 10, 2025: The family has less than two weeks to pay.
Yubisay and Carlo sit in the apartment they may soon lose. They are reading and rereading the Demand for Compliance.
They contact an eviction defense attorney and wait to see if he can help. They struggle to focus.
Every shadow that falls on the floor and sound that comes through the window makes them flinch.
“We don’t know who’s passing by the building,” Yubisay says.
They keep the curtains almost closed — open just enough to catch a peek at whoever’s walking by.
Yubisay has been too frightened to return to the food bank, but she is taking Gabriel to school again. School officials say it’s as safe a place as any. Today, she leaves to pick up her son, and Carlo stays behind.
Minutes later, armed officers walk by the window. The building’s residents rush into their homes, locking the door.
The police knock. The only sound in the apartment is the refrigerator's hum.
Feb. 12, 2025: Ten days until eviction day.
Yubisay walks up the basement stairs with Gabriel and some of his friends. Bundled up, he darts into the single-digit winter weather. He runs around the building, leaving footprints in the snow.
“Gabriel!” Yubisay shouts.
He waddles back.
As Yubisay and the kids walk to school, Gabriel spins himself around street poles, drops to the ground and makes snow angels in people’s yards. He tosses snowballs at his friend.
They walk by a lamppost papered in flyers, including one that says: “Report ICE Activity” and advises people to know their rights: Don’t open the door for ICE agents. Don’t talk with ICE. You have the right to an attorney.
When they arrive at school, a teacher hugs Gabriel. Yubisay waves goodbye and trudges for a half-hour through the snow to the food bank.
Security stands at the door. They greet Yubisay, and she goes inside to spend the morning breaking down boxes and filling paper bags with food.
Normally, the food bank is set up like a grocery store, so people can get what they’ll actually use. But that takes time. With the threat of ICE, staff say the pantry’s goal is to get people in and out fast with pre-assembled packages of food.
Don’t draw attention. Work efficiently. Pack up the food. Take what you need and go.
The staff hopes things can return to their normal, back when a thousand people lined around the block for food.
Yubisay chats and laughs with her fellow volunteers. She’s been cooped up in the apartment, hiding from ICE for so long that she’s glad to be doing something useful and seeing friends.
Feb. 20, 2025: As the move-out day approaches, Yubisay packs to leave.
Even on the cusp of eviction, she doesn’t want to leave a mess behind for her landlord, so she packs her family’s belongings and prepares for the move.
Has she had luck finding an eviction lawyer?
No.
Where is she going to go?
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know.
For now, all she can do is clean.
Feb. 25, 2025: Move-out day comes and goes.
Her family’s still in the apartment.
She strikes a new deal with the landlord: Her family will pay $500 weekly — $300 more per month than she was paying before.
Maybe she’ll find work. Maybe someone will help. Spring is coming, and with warmer weather here, Carlo’s roofing jobs might pick up again.
For now, they go out and shovel for money when they can.
Mar. 10, 2025: Impossible options
Paying weekly proves too hard to manage. The landlord has carried on with the eviction case, and a judge expects Fonesca to appear in court in a few days.
But Fonesca’s family is terrified of entering a government building. Could they be detained?
Colorado has laws banning ICE from arresting people on the way to, near, or at court, to ensure all residents have access to the legal system. But the Trump administration has been testing the limits of state laws. ICE has already reportedly arrested people outside Denver’s courthouse, and the administration has unwound federal protections from raids on sensitive spaces.
If Fonesca wants any chance of avoiding eviction, she must go to court. But fearing deportation, she is afraid to do so.
Both options feel impossible.
